


The Forgotten

by Far_To_The_North, lotrspnfangirl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Farmer Dean Winchester, Friendship, M/M, Mistrust, Possible Prequel, Slow Burn, Survival, scavenger Cas, zombie gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-13
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2019-04-22 09:03:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14305332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Far_To_The_North/pseuds/Far_To_The_North, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lotrspnfangirl/pseuds/lotrspnfangirl
Summary: “They are the lost, but us? We’re the forgotten.”It had been just over a year since the virus took hold, bringing with it death and chaos. Wandering meant survival, each stop bringing vital resources -- water, food, or ammo. Life was a challenge, but it was one that Castiel was determined to succeed at. The day he ran across a small farm in Kansas was just another stop on his travels, another place to replenish his supplies. He wasn’t staying...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thank you to [Cliophilyra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cliophilyra) for helping me clean this up after I went on a "and" deleting spree! (I was over 5k and managed to get it down to 4.5k!) AND on short notice too! You're the best!
> 
> Everyone give Far_to_the_north some love! This is my best friend's second adventure into making SPN fan art and, for real guys, HOW GORGEOUS?! Love it! The second chapter has her art in it's full, glorious, size!

 

_Four hundred, thirty-six days._

The date didn’t matter, not anymore, the seasons were easy enough to determine by the land around him. The only thing that t mattered now was water, food, and ammunition.

Glass crunched underfoot as he picked his way down the narrow alleyway, searching every doorway before him, scanning each dumpster. Cities were breeding grounds, full of death and disease, chaos and sacrifice. Because that’s what this was; a sacrifice of his comfort, his safety, his bullets, all for the hope of something worthwhile.

Like all large cities, this one had been ransacked already; he bypassed the storefronts and abandoned cars. Six months had been long enough to empty the stores, and Castiel hadn’t survived this long by being a fool. If he was going to find anything, it would be in the streets moving towards him, or forgotten in a rotting pool of blood.

The end of the alley opened up on to the final block, the city lines laid out by downtrodden metal fencing. Just over the glint from the midday sun, he could make out the grassy knolls bleeding into the stretch of highway leading out of the city and into the distant farmland. He pressed himself into the brick wall, looking around the corner to see the other end of the fencing.

Four men stood, shuffling along the fence line, moving away from Castiel.

Slowly, his backpack – much lighter than he’d ever wanted it to be – slid from his shoulder, he lowered it to the ground and bent down, pulling a blade from his boot before he strode forward.

Glass and gravel were loud in the wake of his footsteps, increasing in speed as the men in front of him picked up on his movement and started to turn. He responded quickly, darting from side to side to throw them off. They were quick, but prey driven, easy to make stumble into each other.

The smell of death was strong as he approached them, a thick cloud that nearly had him staggering as he plunged his blade into the skull of the first. The flesh was sickly, greyed by decomposition and cracked from the sun. He grunted as he tugged his blade free and black blood, congealed and foul, leaked from the wound as the corpse fell to the ground. Castiel shifted as the next man came at him.

He dodged, struck his blade home, and the second corpse joined the first, followed quickly by the third. It was the final creature that rocked him back on his heels, its left arm darting out quickly, fingernails scrabbling for purchase against Castiel’s skin.

His feet hit the pile of decaying flesh and he fell over, the man’s rotting body following him down.

“Fuck,” Cas hissed, struggling with the sudden weight fighting against his hold. His weapon clattered to the pavement, the sound lost in the inhuman growls coming from above him. He winced, the bodies beneath his back not giving him the purchase he needed to get the upper hand.

Instead, he twisted, his shoulder slipping off the pile and slamming into the pavement. The shift brought the creature to face him, both of them side by side, it’s hands digging painfully into the skin of Castiel’s stomach through his jacket. He let go with one hand, reaching for the man’s skull, gagging as his fingertips slipped through a soft spot of flesh.

Tightening his hold, he slammed the skull as hard as he could into the pavement, closing his eyes as he repeated the motion and felt warm, thick drops hit his cheeks, lips, and throat.

Wiping his face with his sleeve, Castiel sat up and looked around, struggling to catch his breath. His left side hurt, no doubt a cracked rib or two, but he couldn’t pause here to wrap them. A quick search of their pockets gave him two wasted 9mm rounds, a pocket knife, and more dirt and grime. He swore under his breath; these four had been fruitless, a waste of energy, though not ammunition. If they’d been travelers before, their packs were long lost, and there was no fresh kill in sight.

He resisted the urge to scream as he straightened and circled back for his pack, sliding it over his right shoulder. Then, he faced the fence once more, looking for the largest gap to slip through. It was time to leave this city behind.

 

 

_Four hundred, thirty-eight days_

Castiel was out of water. The stretch of highway had given him a few things to add to his pack - a pair of jeans much nicer than the ones he wore, an undershirt, and a box of cream of wheat, left in the back of a SUV and somehow undamaged by the weather. He’d still have to examine it, make sure it wasn’t gone by, but he was excited for the find nonetheless.

Water, however, was nowhere to be found. The few bodies that were trapped in their cars, fingertips bleeding and broken as they continued to try and claw their way through metal and glass, were not worth the risk, and everything else had dried up.

He sighed as he pulled himself up onto the back of a pickup, wincing at the pull to his ribs. The sun was starting to set, and out in the wilderness, there were more than just the dead to fear. He looked around the bypass from his perch, noting a windmill and accompanying farmhouse in the near distance.

Too far to travel tonight, of course. But now he had a plan for the ‘morrow. He climbed back down and turned his attention to the cars around him, picking out an old Ford Windstar. A quick inspection showed it to be empty with every window miraculously intact. He tested the handle, wrenching at it with all his strength.

A lurch gave way with a hideous screech of protesting metal, rust flakes scattering the ground at his feet. He coughed at the stale air that escaped and stood back to let the fresh summer air into the space. Around him, the air stayed humid but blessedly silent.

He leaned in, giving the small space a quick once-over, then climbed in. Opening the small ventilation windows in the back, he turned to the seat release to create a larger trunk space. He tucked his backpack in the farthest corner, under the passenger side ventilation window, before popping each door lock -- just in case.

A soft breeze flitted around the car, bringing with it a smattering of stars in the night sky and the sound of crickets and howls in the distance. He let his eyes fall closed, focused on the steady in-and-out of each breath, the pull of his side and twitch in his legs as he stretched out as much as he could in the four-foot space.

He both loved and hated nights like this. It was one of the safer shelters he could claim for a night, despite not being easily defendable from other wanderers, but cars carried so many memories. With closed eyes, face pressed into his arm and the sound of the night air alive around him, it was easy to drift back into a lifetime he’d never get back. He remembered how his oldest brother, Gabriel, would sneak out the back door, tugging Castiel and Zach along beside him until they reached the large tractor in the back field, clambering into the safety of its cab as if howling wolves were snapping at their feet instead of by the riverside. How at night, the constellations had looked so huge, so intimidating, after Gabriel had pointed out every warrior and beast, captivating his younger siblings with their heroic tales.

Now, as Castiel gazed upon the sky, twisting his head to find the cornerstone of stars depicting Hercules, the stars seemed simple, fleeting, as clouds easily obscured his view and dimmed their shine as they lazily moved past. These days it was avoiding blood and death that got his heart racing more than tales of epic battles and rescuing pretty girls.

He turned his head away, rolling onto his side and pressing his face into the stale-smelling carpet.

Castiel was glad he didn’t dream.

 

 

_Four hundred, thirty-nine days_

“Hey!” Castiel stopped, eyes darting up to the sparse tree line edging the front of the farm. He spotted a man perched on a thick branch, waving at him. He seemed friendly, but Castiel could see his other hand was wrapped around the butt of a pistol behind his back. Then his eyes widened.

The man cocked his head. Appearing to sense no threat -- _foolish,_ Castiel thought bitterly -- he tucked the gun back into his jeans. He opened his mouth to speak, then realization seemed to dawn and he grinned widely before plucking a single fruit from a branch and tossing it down.

Castiel held his breath as he caught it two handed, fingers gripping tight and bruising the sun-warmed flesh of the peach. He breathed in deep, mouth watering and stomach flipping at the sweet, summer scent.

 

“Go on,” the man urged. Castiel glanced back up, his eyes locked on the farmer as he lifted the fruit to his lips and took a bite. Juice burst on to his tongue and trickled down his chin, making him groan. He’d forgotten how good fresh fruit tasted.

“Awesome, right?”

Castiel nodded despite his distrust of the man, and watched as he grabbed a thick branch and lowered himself down. Castiel dropped the peach into one hand and drew his gun with the other. The man immediately threw up his hands, stepping back to press his back against the trunk of the tree.

“Gun on the ground,” Castiel demanded, voice low and cracking. His thumb slid off the safety, elbow locked and eyes trained on the man in warning.

“You got it, boss,” the man said and slowly reached behind him, holding the pistol out to the side before bending and placing it on the ground. “I’d appreciate you lowering yours now.”

“You think I’m stupid?” Castiel asked, cocking his head to the side. His stomach flipped at the small smirk playing out on the man’s lips. “I don’t see anything funny. I will shoot you without a moment’s hesitation.”

“Don’t doubt you.” The man shrugged and straightened, shoving his hands in his pocket. He waited a moment, watching, then nodded to the peach in Castiel’s hand. “Why don’t you finish that and follow me. I’m assumin’ you want a bit of hot food? Got a well out back, too.”

Without prompting, the man turned and started walking towards the house. _Stupid._

“Do you frequently turn your back on people pointing a gun at you?” Castiel called out. The man’s shoulders shook with laughter as he continued towards the porch. Castiel took another bite of the peach and picked up the pistol from the ground before following.

“Name’s Dean,” the man offered once he reached the steps, reaching out to touch the handrail. “Guns aren’t allowed in the house, you can leave them on the table just inside the door. Mama’s rules.”

Castiel froze, eyes darting to the windows. “Other people are here?” he asked, regretfully tossing the peach away and taking a defensive stance at the bottom step.

Dean paused at the screen door, something dark flashing over his eyes before he smiled sadly and shook his head. “No, just me. Doesn’t mean Mama’s rules don’t stick though. I even take off my boots still.”

Castiel’s eyes trailed down; while he’d been looking at the windows, Dean had shoved off his work boots and lined them up neatly by the door. Dean wiggled his feet, his left toe poking through a worn hole in his sock, then opened the screen door. The hinges protested, screaming out their distaste, and Dean waited, holding it open.

This could be a trap, Castiel knew that. He didn’t trust Dean farther than he could throw him, he knew the dangers of walking into a seemingly empty house, and yet… a warmth that had nothing to do with the summer sun beating down around him was coming from the open door. He took a step forward, then another, and found himself in a small coat-room.

“Table’s there,” Dean said from behind him, brushing past carefully.

Castiel laid both guns on the table, meeting Dean’s gaze as he exhaled. Then he moved swiftly, grabbing at Dean across the table, closing a hand around his throat and slamming him into the wall. “You’re too trusting,” he hissed. The table was too wide for either of them to reach across it properly, Castiel’s body pinned against Dean’s, so any weapon was out of their reach. But Castiel had the element of surprise, the upper hand.

They both knew it.

“Maybe so,” Dean whispered, voice strangled by the pressure of Castiel’s fingers cutting off his airway. Castiel could smell the scent of peaches on his breath. Dean struggled once, hand gripping Castiel’s wrist; Castiel applied more pressure.

Their eyes met. Dean’s a vibrant green – so alive, _hopeful_ – which seemed to dim within seconds, and suddenly Dean relaxed, his hand dropping, accepting his fate. There was no fight to be had, Castiel had won, and he could take this life as easily as he could take supplies, fill up his pack and be on his way.

People were supposed to fight, for resources, shelter, for their _lives_. The defeated look in Dean’s eyes, the resignation, made Castiel shiver. He’d started in Oklahoma and traveled east, taking out men, dead and alive, along the way to _survive_. Never, not once, had it not been a fight for life.

He tore his eyes away from Dean’s peaceful expression, glancing deeper into the small farmhouse.

“I have some venison,” Dean’s voice was strangled and rough but steady, calm, and Castiel hated everything about it. “Grits, too, if you like ‘em. Not much else, I’m afraid… Garden’s not ready to harvest quite yet. Other than peaches, of course.”

Castiel blinked, turning back to meet Dean’s eyes.

“You can take some or you can stay.”

“Or I could kill you and take everything,” Castiel whispered, narrowing his eyes as he glanced between both of Dean’s. He felt the other man swallow, his throat swelling against his palm.

“Could,” Dean agreed, shrugging. “Could do either.”

Slowly, Castiel drew his hand back, stepping away quickly and moving closer to the gun table. Dean cracked his neck, reaching up to rub his collarbone, and raised an eyebrow.

“Gonna be pissed if this bruises, you know.”

Castiel nodded, then followed Dean further into his house.

 

 

_Four hundred, forty-two days_

“I’m not staying.”

Dean looked up from where he knelt in the dirt, reaching up to block the sun from his eyes as he peered at Castiel. Slowly, he stood from the garden soil, clapping dirt from his hands and picking up the hand cultivator.

Castiel followed him as he made his way to the back of the house, kneeling down by an old metal storm door to the root cellar. The cool air inside was a relief from the heat at ground level, and he blinked a few times to get used to the dark space. Dean headed to a metal rack at the end of the cellar and pulled down a few jars from the top shelf. He handed them to Castiel silently, then turned to grab a military grade canteen, slinging the strap over his shoulder.

They were silent as Dean closed the doors once more and led Castiel back into the house, both of them removing their boots and placing their guns on the small table, before Dean stopped short in the living room.

“Fill that up when you’re ready to head out.” He slid the canteen off his neck, holding it out. “I’ll get you some jerky to go with the peaches and beans, too.”

Castiel glanced down at the jars in his arms, slowly opening the fingers of his right hand to take the canteen. He winced as the awkward stretch pulled on his ribs, then licked his lower lip.

“I’m not staying,” he repeated, “but… I’ll wait until I’m healed completely, first.”

Dean just nodded, tipped his head, and slipped past to return to the garden. Castiel watched him walk across the yard, whistling. Dean’s pistol was tucked back in his jeans. He dropped to his knees, hands soon back in the earth as he tended to the carrots, tomatoes, and squash.

The cans in Castiel’s arms felt heavier and slowly, he put them into his backpack. He stared down at it, the fabric bulging at the bottom from the press of the jars. Then he moved it over to the front door. He picked up his gun, tucking it in his belt, and walked outside to see if Dean needed any help.

 

 

_Four hundred, forty-nine days_

Dean laughed, the sound too loud in the small clearing, echoing off the earth built up around them. Castiel loved it.

He bit back the smile, forcing himself to focus on reeling in his bite. When he finally dropped his fish into the bucket alongside Dean’s and started to re-bait his hook, Dean had caught his breath and was wiping tears from his eyes.

“Man,” he said, voice cracking, still thick with laughter, “my brother was the same. Fuck, I miss that kid, you know?”

The last words were more somber, affectionate, and Castiel hummed. “Yeah, I know.”

They fell into a comfortable silence, companionable. Something Castiel had been resigned to never having again. He looked down at his hands covered in thick, black dirt, sticky from the nightcrawlers, and could see the life he’d taken on them. Blood could be washed, the smell of death was a distant memory, but his hands remembered every life he’d taken.

And he’d taken a lot.

Slowly, he clenched them into fists, letting the dirt slide along his palms before turning them over and wiping them on his jeans. _Dean’s jeans_. And that in itself was just as strange. People were dangerous for many reasons – resources were scarce, people wanted to survive, it was every man for himself. And yet… Dean opened his doors wide, welcoming Castiel with open arms, sharing his food, healing his wounds, making him feel –

“You got a bite,” Dean broke through his thoughts. Castiel looked up and saw the line pulled taut, spool screaming its protest. He moved quickly, picking up the pole from the hole between his knees and starting to reel the fish in.

Beside him, Dean chuckled. Castiel smiled.

 

***

They made their way back to the farm house beneath the midday sun, Dean whistling some classic rock song, and making Castiel feel safe and content after living in utter silence for the past year.

“We have to crank the backup generator, then we can head across the river to see the cattle.”

Castiel nodded, following Dean into the cellar where a freezer unit was set up. They stored their catch, keeping out enough for supper, then moved to collect their extra ammo. The set-up Dean had was unlike anything he’d come across – the farm was surrounded by others, abandoned or lost to the dead, and Dean had found the resources he needed. Generators, a field of cattle, vegetables to garden.

Castiel would be sad to leave it.

He watched Dean stroll across his back field, swinging the metal pail on his left side and whistling once more.

Castiel would be sad to leave more than just the farm.

 

 

_Four hundred, fifty-two days_

Castiel pulled open the window, sinking down to his knees and leaning his arms against the sill. The night air was cool, breeze moving the windmill and making it creak softly. He closed his eyes, held his breath.

His side was still aching but he’d refused the pain medication Dean had offered. Bruised ribs weren’t anything new, and Dean had gotten a gash that had required stitches and a dip into his antibiotic supply; Castiel wasn’t going to dwindle the small amount of pain killers, too.

Today was a close call. As soon as he had laid down to sleep, the moment had been on repeat. Dean had been laughing, carrying the rabbits they’d caught in the forest, when his laughter had been swallowed by a shout. One moment Dean was standing, the next he was on the ground with a Dead on him.

The female’s decrepit frame was small, but her movements fast, and Dean’s eyes were wide with fear. He hissed loudly and Castiel cried out in alarm as he saw a burst of red against Dean’s throat, _living_ blood. His heart pounded as he realized Dean wasn’t going to be able to save himself.

Panicked, Castiel reached for his gun. The echo of the gunshot was ringing through his head. Thick, black blood and brain matter seeped from the hole blasted through the creature’s head, and Castiel held his breath, waiting for Dean to move.

He didn’t breathe until he saw Dean’s fingers twitch.

“Fuck.” Dean’s voice was muffled, caught under in the weight of the corpse. They worked together to move the body. Castiel winced when he looked down at the other man.

Black sludge covered Dean’s face and clothing and bright red blood was seeping through his flannel shirt. Castiel’s hands shook as he reached for Dean’s shoulder, pulling the cloth out of the way to see the damage.

“Lets--” Dean whispered, voice cracking, “Let’s just get back.”

 

***

Castiel let out a shaky breath, trying to focus on the knowledge that Dean was upstairs now, safe and asleep.

He looked up at the stars and wished for daylight.

 

 

_Four hundred, sixty-four days_

Castiel stared as Dean yanked a shotgun from behind the door of the closet, cocking it before pressing himself against the wall beside the window. He took aim, his eyes narrowed, and they waited.

The wanderers took their time, picking their way around the farmhouse, taking their fair share from the peach trees and garden and filling their packs. They were speaking to one another, their voices carrying on the wind, but Castiel couldn’t understand a word they said.

Then, they moved to the deck and Dean stiffened, tilting the barrel down. From this angle, they had a clear shot of the front door through the posts of the porch. Castiel watched as the pair jiggled the door handle a few times and peered into the side window, talking in hushed tones.

Something turned them off, for whatever reason. The farmhouse was too obviously lived in. Clothing they’d washed yesterday morning was slung over the porch railing, baskets and gardening tools still scattered beside the garden.

Yet… the wanderers took another walk around the property, Castiel watched from the back windows as they filled their canteens from the well, then started back in the direction of the highway.

Silence fell. The sound of Dean’s breathing and his own heart beating in the center of his chest, were all Castiel could hear. Dean ejected the bullet and pushed himself to his feet, glancing over to where Castiel stood.

“Mama’s rules say no guns in the house,” Castiel said after a moment, and Dean smiled sheepishly as he replaced the gun in the closet. “You’ve been armed this entire time?”

Dean shrugged and shoved his hands into the pocket of his jeans. “I’m not a stupid man, Cas. My mom had no such rules, she carried herself, most of the time. But like hell I was going to let you walk around here with a gun to shove in my face every time I pissed you off. You were jumpy enough as it was.”

Castiel glared, Dean refused to meet his gaze.

“You’re taking dish duty until further notice.”

Dean looked up and smiled, watching Castiel as he left the room.

 

 

_Four hundred, seventy-nine days_

From his spot on the couch, Castiel watched as Dean’s gaze flicked to the backpack by the door. The other man seemed to be increasingly aware of its existence, stopping every so often to stare. He could feel Dean itching to move it, felt the weight of its presence.

Dean looked up suddenly, smiling at Cas and holding up his catch. “Hope you’re not sick of rabbit.”

Castiel shook his head and stood, following Dean to the kitchen. They prepared their meal in comfortable silence, then Castiel watched as Dean seasoned and started cooking their food.

“Do you ever… think about them?” Dean asked, glancing over once before looking back at the pan. “If they’re still there somehow?”

Castiel shook his head slowly. “No,” he answered honestly, “I gave up on the hope that the dead weren’t… dead.” He cleared his throat, thinking of Gabriel, of Zach. “They’re the lost, but we’re the forgotten,” Castiel whispered, picking at his fingernail.

Dean was quiet for a moment, the only sound the crackle of meat in the frying pan.

“I won’t,” Dean answered. Castiel opened his mouth to ask, but Dean pushed forward. “I know you’re not going to stay, you’ll move on eventually. But… I’ll never forget you.”

Something clenched, heated and effervescent in Castiel’s stomach. A man of few words, Dean was honest, his words carrying depth in their simplicity.

Castiel answered him just as simply.

“That damn backpack is taking up a lot of space out there.”

Dean made a soft noise in the back of his throat and met Castiel as he rose up from the chair. Dean’s hands were warm against his cheeks, his eyes so damn alive, so hopeful, and Castiel nodded, fingers knotting in the fabric of Dean’s shirt.

The distance between them closed, Dean’s lips finding Castiel’s smoothly, smiling at the edge of desperation as Castiel pulled him even closer.

“God, I didn’t think,” Dean whispered. Castiel shushed him, reaching up to cover Dean’s hand with his own.

They breathed together in silence, Castiel’s heart pounding -- everything he’d given up, everything he’d lost, everything he’d never believed a soul on this damned earth could have again. “I know,” he whispered back, pressing their foreheads together.

The scent of their forgotten food broke them apart, and Dean smiled sheepishly as he pulled the pan off the burner.

“Can you?” he asked, reaching into the cabinet for plates and handing them over. “I’ll be right back.”

Castiel served up two plates, the underside of the meat slightly crispy and potatoes burned. He looked up as Dean walked past the doorway, backpack slung over his shoulder and Castiel’s pillow and blanket in his arms. He paused, listening to the creak of the hardwood above his head, letting him know Dean was putting his things in his own room; their room.

He smiled. He met Dean at the bottom of the stairs, with a plate and a kiss.

“Welcome home,” Dean said softly.


	2. Art by Far_To_The_North




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